This is Going to Be Great!

Oh great. It’s another beautiful morning. The sun is shining. The birds are singing. I can hear the laughter of children playing in the neighbor’s yard. Oh fun.

I guess I should get up. I’m not sure why though. This is my daily morning debate. There are good reasons for either choice but most days the argument points raised by my bladder and the hungry rumbles in my stomach sway the debate in favor of getting up.

I’m about to get breakfast when I notice the stack of envelops on the table reminding me that they must get out to the mail this morning. I throw on just enough clothes to be acceptable while I head out to the mailbox.

As I leave the house, I see Jerry backing his car onto the street, probably heading to work. I used to get up and go to work every morning too but that was seven years and three months ago. Thats when the people who pretended that they liked me at work finally went too far. They had been pushing their luck with me for a long time especially shortly after my one year anniversary at Mortin and Sallis Accounting.

My first anniversary was a day of great pride for me. They gave me a black notebook to honor my work. It had the company name and address in the middle of the cover. In the bottom right corner it had my name, Bernard Hashen, and below it ‘Accounting Assistant’. I was valued. I belonged. I’d fill it with all my successes in the company.

After that things changed. I could tell right away. People were jealous of my success. I started to see other people writing in notebooks like mine. They must have bought their own notebooks so they could act like they were just as important as I was.

Oh yeah, they thought they could make fun of me and get away with it. No, that wasn’t going to happen. My notebook took on a totally different role. For the next five months, I filled it with all the terrible things they were doing to me, so many inexcusable things. I read it every day. I read about the time the pen I had left on my desk disappeared right after Joe walked by. I didn’t find it until an hour later when I spotted it underneath the papers I needed to file. I’m not sure how Joe hid it there but he most certainly did. I read about the time Sarah got coffee for herself and Susan but didn’t ask me if I wanted any. I remembered the time I went into the lunch room. Just as I sat down, Samuel who was already there looked at the clock and announced that he needed to get back to work. He said he was already late. I doubted it. I loved my beautiful notebook. It made sure I didn’t forget anything of the insults.

Then came the day they went too far. Sarah stopped at my desk. “There’s a cake in the lunch room for Joseph’s birthday.” She told me all about it but she didn’t invite me. She just wanted to warn me that I should stay away.

I got out my notebook to write it down. Then I sat down and read all that had happened to me since I got the notebook. It was time to do something about it.

As I headed to the lunchroom, I could hear everyone laughing at me. I pushed open the door to the lunchroom. Marilyn had cut the cake and she was handing out pieces to everyone. She even tried to hand one to me but I knew she didn’t want me to have one. No one did. I grabbed the knife she used to cut the cake. It looked more like it was meant for a knife fight than cutting a cake.I cut off her hand. She was still holding the piece of cake. Everyone screamed and ran. I took the piece of cake from her cut off hand. It tasted really good.

I don’t really know how it all ended. I just know I woke up in a hospital where everyone was assuring me that they would help me get better. Within a few days I realized that this wasn’t a regular hospital. There were bars on all the windows and locked doors everywhere. I was in a psychiatric hospital. So many doctors, so many meetings, so little of value except for the fact that I talked the lady doctor into getting me a new notebook whenever I filled one. They weren’t as fancy but they were always black. I insisted on that. There was plenty to write about at the hospital. I filled six more notebooks. I was in there for six years, eight months and fourteen days before they decided that I was fine as long as I stayed on my meds. They sent me home.

When I got home, I threw away the meds. I didn’t trust the doctors. Why should I trust the meds.

I kept using the notebooks. There was plenty to write about my neighbors here. They weren’t any better than the people at Mortin and Sallis or the people in the hospital.

I waved at Jerry as he was leaving. He didn’t wave back. It wasn’t the first time. That was definitely going into my black notebook. Back inside I wrote up Jerry’s offense. He usually waved back but this is the fifth time in four months that he ignored me. That was way too often.

He was not the only one. Mrs. Swift, the woman next door usually stopped to check on me and see if I needed anything when she was going to the market, but three times in the same four months, her daughter picked her up. They went away for the day. When she came home, she always had a bag of groceries. She didn’t ask me if I needed anything those times. That went into the notebook.

Almost everyone on this street is in the notebook. They pretend to be friendly but sooner or later they show who they really are and what they really think of me. That’s when they end up in the black notebook.

Sammy, Mrs. Swift’s grandson, mows my lawn for free when he does his grandmother’s lawn. One time though he left before he did mine. Before he left, he apologized and he did come back the next day to do it. He said he had a dentist appointment and that’s why he couldn’t do it the same day but I doubt it.

Wilson delivers my newspaper every morning by 6 o’clock but one day he was sick and his friend was delivering his papers instead. His friend skipped my house. I bet Wilson told him to skip my house.

I can’t actually blame them for not wanting me in the neighborhood. They all know that I can’t work anymore, that I’m living on Social Security Disability. I suspect that they also know where I was for six years, eight months and fourteen days.

I live in the ugly little house that I inherited from my grandmother. If I sold it, someone could bulldoze it and build a really nice house here. I’m sure they would be happy about that, happy to be rid of me too. I can’t afford to move. They’re stuck with me and my ugly little shack of a house.

I wonder if Jerry or Mrs. Swift or any of the other neighbors has a black notebook about me. Maybe they all do. It wouldn’t surprise me.

I noticed last week that Jerry took a picture of my house. He’s probably complaining to the township about how it is affecting property values on the street. Why can’t they just leave me alone?

Yesterday, I saw Jerry and Mrs. Swift on the sidewalk talking again. I’m sure they are making more plans to get rid of me.

That’s why I wrote the letters that I just put in the mailbox. The letter to Jerry came first.

Dear Jerry,

The next time I wave to you when you are leaving and you ignore me, I will come over and cut off your lying hands

Bernard

Dear Mrs. Swift,

If I catch you staring at my house again, I will grab your eyes and tear them out of your head.

And if your stupid grandson skips cutting my grass again, I’ll show him other things you can do with a lawn mower that won’t be fun for him.

Bernard

Now I was on a roll. I got out my notebook reminding myself of how badly they treated me. I wrote letters to everyone on the street. Each letter was different but they each told someone what I was going to do to them. Everyone will get them the tomorrow.

I saw Jerry and Mrs. Swift were back on the sidewalk talking this afternoon. Two men pulled up in a shiny new Lexus. They got out, took more photos of my house, and talked with Jerry. From the looks of their car and their suits, it was pretty obvious that they were going to be trouble.

They head across the street to my house.

What am I going to do! If only I had my guns but the police took them away before they brought me home.

I hear the knock on the door. I’ll hide and pretend I’m not home. No, Jerry already saw me.

Another knock, louder this time.

I’ll just not answer until they go away.

The pounding on the door gets louder and louder and louder. It won’t stop.

I can’t take the sound of it! They are never going to give up.

I open the door screaming. “What do you want? Get off my porch.”

They look at each other. The older man takes a deep breath and starts talking, “Hello, Sir. We are from Backlot Films and we are making a movie in your town. Jerry is a friend of mine so I contacted him to look for locations we could use. He suggested that your lovely cottage would be a perfect backdrop for one of the scenes we will be shooting. Having seen it, we certainly agree. If you would be willing to have our film crew come here and film a few actors doing scenes on your porch and in your front yard, it would only take a few hours and you wouldn’t need to do anything to get ready. We’ll have a check with your name on it for $20,000 to give you when we finish shooting.”

“Yes, of course. I’d be thrilled!” I can’t believe it when I hear myself saying it.

“Mrs. Swift will be over before the shoot to put some planters on your deck for decoration if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds exciting!”

“Thank you. This will work out so well. We’ll make sure you get a copy of the film when we are done.”

The next day, Mrs. Swift put plants on my porch. They looked kind of pretty. They did the shoot. It was fun to watch. They were done just after noon. I got my check and headed to the bank to deposit it. Jerry, Mrs. Swift and the rest of the street got their letters while I was gone.

Everything is going to change for the better now. I won’t be broke anymore. Everyone will realize that they must respect me when they read their letters. For the first time in forever, I am looking forward to tomorrow.

When I get home, the sheriff is at the door with some people from the hospital. Guess they want to hear about the filming this morning. I open the door with a smile on my face.